[Gig Review] EXHUMED (US), ASHEN & GUTLESS (AUS) @ Stay Gold, Melbourne 06.06.26.
Writer: Brady Irwin
Photographer: Chris Dynia
Organised By: Your Mate Bookings
(See end of article for artist/other links)
If you haven’t already, go check out our other recent Exhumed coverage:
As Always,
Peace, Love and Grindcore - Brady/Chris.
June has been an insane month for gigs. Indeed, the reason this one’s so late is that I’ve currently got at least four other Gig Reviews incoming in the pipeline. Whilst I’m incredibly blessed for the great opportunities myself and our team have had, managing the run up and down between the arse-end of the Bellarine Peninsula whilst moving back to Melbourne - yeah, that’s been a rough one with a lot of stress and disruptions.
Nevertheless, the horrors (life in the boring late-stage capitalist dystopia that is 2026 outside of gigs) and tour schedules persist, and so do I.
Now. I could attribute this to neurodivergence (your average metal/heavy music gig probably has a very high representation of us spicy folks trying to stim and enjoy their special interest), the fact of the matter is being a bit dented in your brain structure does not alone make a spectacle like tonight appealing. Adding to this, Stay Gold’s such a hardcore/metalcore/emo-associative in mind that I find it just as strange walking in here for a brutal metal gig as when Dead Congregation/Blood Incantation played. Heck, I’m pretty sure I saw spin-kicking at that gig and this one. It’s like the hardcore-ethos seeps into that purposefully wide pit area.
Pull off some 2006-coded hardcore dancing at your peril in front of Perth’s Ashen, though? Yeah, go on. Dare you. Having apparently travelled to Siberia to source the biggest and gruffest bear of a new frontman they could possibly find, recent vocalist addition is a far more imposing sight than Western Australian tropes (quokkas, skinny dudes in high-vis clamouring for a bag on FIFO leave, etc) would suggest.
The last time we formally reviewed these guys was for the now-ill-fated (sniff) New Dead Festival. Drew Griffiths brings notable WA credentials from Deadspace, Obed Marsh and Ur Draugr to the fore. And a hell of a lot of previous experience in crowd-workmanship. Following the warbling dark-ambient synth tones that are just about requisite for a metal show these days, it seems, the band immediately lurches into their savage but heavily stomp-ready blend of Western modern death metal.
“We are Ashen from Western Australia!” Drew growls declaratively over the first of many barbaric yet tightly wound riffs ployed by Shannon Over (Guitarist) and his rhythm section accompaniment in Ben Mazzarol (Drums) and Josh Harris (Bass). ‘Devourer’ does exactly what it says on the tin, modernised production blending with grinder-friendly distorted grit in a chef’s-kiss tonal mix. Rolling triplets of kicks punctuate a doomier start riff that lurches with enough AHAB-ian force to get heads a-swayin’ and, before long, we’re transported into the first of many endless tremolo-strewn wind-tunnels of blasting. To hoots of disbelieving, blast-stimming applause from an already warmed up and sizeable early crowd contingent.
Shannon stooped over the foldbacks swinging his head as fervently as Josh on bass, both sporting an extra couple of strings just to drag you into a deeper baritone muck amidst so much top-end riff-chicanery, blazing leads and dime-turn stop-starts. It’s discordant but only in the mildest sense, otherwise flat-stick death and slamming groove through first track into the gurn-able head-nodder ‘Ageless’ (“Thank you, thank you - bring it on Stay Gold, you ready for it?!” - Drew).
The tribalistic, tom-heavy drums and bend-heavy licks scattered throughout this one bring the groove factor to a surging zenith, and it’s all folks can do but get pitting far earlier in the piece than your usual death metal affair. Honestly, apropos must be paid, right? Melburnians especially can be hard to thaw out early on, I’ve noticed, so when a Perth band gets the room howling through this number with the vocalist basically leant over the foldbacks on top of them for the spasmodic, furious ‘Ritual’? Yeah, can’t be helped. It’s like IT, except instead of us all floating down here - we headbang. Invitations to “Do it better than Frankston” (easiest tease besides pulling the Sydney card) and “C’mon, let’s actually get some movement going here!” spurn a bunch of oppositional-defiant disordered punters in the first of many circle pits for the night.
Easing off into an electronica washed, doom-riff laden track with more of a jagged black metal arpeggiation/tremolo riff playbook, fresh track ‘Low In The Light’ serves as a great juxtaposition - in the first half at least. The doom-metal intonation’s almost jarring, and the absolutely keening expectant look in the crowds’ eyes as the Big Riffs Coming moment drops? Ah, molto bene! As for the very Bloodbath/modern OSDM interpretation of ‘Ancestral Gate’? “This one’s for people who smoke weed!”. Oh, I get it Drew. You don’t mean ‘puffing a spliff of some cosy indica on a Thailand beach’ weed-smoking, you’re obviously referring to ‘teenager huffing gravity/bucket bongs of chronic and wondering why they’re having an anxiety attack’ weed-smoking. Right? I mean, the stompy but anthemic ferocious bastard of a track you and your crew just unleashed communicates as much (anecdotally, naturally - we’re all sarcasm-free straight-edgers in this venue. Ignore the multiple bars).
‘Blood Offering’ deals slightly with that psychedelic territory with some nicely subtle phaser/filter style guitar effects, a very Edge of Sanity flavoured proggy meandering section, all that dude-with-dreads-friendly caper. Said dude would’ve had his hippy socks knocked off by the sheer brutality of a breakdown riff towards the tracks’ end that’d have a lot of past ‘core acts present on the same stage hanging their heads. Finishing off with title track from most recent LP Leave The Flesh Behind is both a statement of promotion and principle: it’s a bombastic track with swelling, surging blasts and riffs that give an imperialistic feel not unlike Emperor. As the chaos winds up to a pinnacle and subsides with ringing chords, the crowd is worked to a hollering frenzy. These guys are building a serious name for themselves on the live front, and only show signs of accelerating the madness.
Perfect transition, then, for a band that is effectively a blood-drunk psychopath lurking in a Contaminated (heh, puns) swamp. Rising from the muck to create a din that feels extremely Melburnian in its’ undercity-tunnel sludginess, Gutless waste no time spewing forth an equally technically impressive but far sludgier, danker muck of old-school influenced death metal filth.
“Now you’re fucked!” is the first of many sneering “You kids gon’ get it” vocal drops that snarling caveman vocalist/guitarist Tom Caldwell barks in the few sparse half-measures of silence in what’s otherwise a HM2-drenched sea of bopping old-school bludgeoning car-crashing into modern, techy, tremolo-infused high-octane riffage. The spindling, swarming riffage of Tom and lead guitarist Allan Stacey isn’t just straight Big Chungus stank of stompy riffs - there’s a plethora of sharp, piercing harmonics, trilling leads and blazing solos amongst the chunky mix. Helping to redirect the sewage flow from mosh-heady palm-mute bro-chug to blistering speeds are the equally frenetic Joe Steele (Bass) and Ollie Ballantyne (Drums). I mean for real, guys, either go to a Gutless show (or don’t, I’m not your Mum) or check out the footage posted in the above Gallery of Brewicide article. I’m not saying that for the metrics (what even is analytics, really, sounds too LinkedIn-ey for my taste), I’m highlighting just how purpose-built the band are for kicking serious moshpit action into frenzy-mode.
Not for the first time, there feels like a line drawn as a clear demarcation between ‘pre-Gutless’ and ‘post-Gutless’. That line is more of a thick fog of sweat, hollering and spilt-beer, as the band just hone so nicely on exactly the right right progressions to get you going from frantic attempts to at least headbang every second snare-hit (or, for idiots like me, all of them - ouchie goes my neck, the next day) or to bash senselessly into the rando next to you like they’re a trusted fellow cave clan member.
With the setlist progressing from feeling like a more methed-up, scungy but technical death-thrash attack into the d-beat and choke riddled (and extremely Cannibal Corpse-y, in a good way) third act, folks are already on the ‘we’re just going to straight-up mosh between your tracks in the silence ‘cause we now can’t help ourselves’ bandwagon. Pretty early in the night, too! Speaking of Cannibal Corpse, the follow-up tracks weaves enough choking, bouncy cymbal/hi-hat stops and starts with that very early Floridian fret-spanning, scale-bouncing blend of techy and boppy to work everyone into relentless headbang. The band themselves are going hard, about the only still member of the band being Caldwell during his throaty, guttural bellows. Any chance he gets, he’s back to swivelling to his whirling bandmates with equal death metal aplomb.
Throwing out everything from “You’re all fucking dead - cheers, cunts!” to earnest thanks to Anthony Blayney and Your Mate Bookings, whilst under grim red lighting, just hilariously highlights the nature of our culture. There’s something (in my case probably faulty brain-wiring and need for a n g e r y music to soothe a hyperactive mind) deliciously off about those moments where you realise you’re unironically loving having a long-haired man bleat about death, carnage and horror whilst Morbid Angel-style riffage punctures your ears through the blasting, belching, grooving, hooky, tumultous final three tracks of the set.
You’ll note I didn’t drop track titles in here and that’s intentional; a Gutless set (this one comprised heavily of material from disgustingly-good 2024 debut full-length High Impact Violence) feels more like an encyclopedic excursion through the back-catalogue of old-school, mashed with a Victorian sludginess that’s so gritty and fun, it needs not even bear a name.
Also, seriously, like Leave The Flesh Behind, High Impact Violence is just so good, man. For real. Go check it out at the Bandcamp link below. Same for Ashen. Stuff it - I’m listening to both those albums right now.
Initially, just two acts to support none other than our death-grind legends, our necrotic modern godfathers Exhumed, felt like a confusing decision. Typically these things are stacked lips to butthole with 20 grind bands. Well, not only is the Melbourne grind scene requiring an oxygen tank (Swamplands grind gigs and Abu Ghraib, I miss you sniff) but also acts like Gutless, Contaminated, Internal Rot and the like prove there’s plenty of lovely bits of filth over ‘ere to draw from in our scene.
And finally, mercifully for me readership patiently but quietly asking me to Get On With It - we are up to our evening’s headliners.
All Hail Exhumed!
Strutting onto the stage as one, grins proudly adorning their faces, tonights’ ultimate face-melters show themselves up with the casualness of an opener in a dive bar. No whimsy, no fanfare, no speeches, just one hell of a blistering, gnarly, mayhemic cacophony of groove-laden, blast-heavy death-inflected grindcore. Oh, sweet mother of Jesus is this kind of stuff just my thang. It’s like a damn good steak or a delicious spaghetti bol - not concerned with presentation or garnish as much as being a filling, satisfying experience.
Squawking his first of many somehow powerfully-brittle hawkish high-register screeches, vocalist/guitarist Matt Harvey and white axe feels at once aesthetically and musically a thrasher, grinder and black-metaller - an instant reminder these grinder are firmly-footed in the metal camp. For this band, those cousins are brothers.
Speaking of, as we kick off into opener ‘Unsafe At Any Speed’ from the absolutely-delicious groove-heavy latest LP Red Asphalt. I think for reference I need to pull up and muh-autism/ackshually clarify. If you’re anything a metalhead like me, you’re at a show like this and not as much interested in a nearby venues’ bill of local groove-laden bands. They’re ‘groovy’ in the same sense Rotten Sound are, both live and on-disc: slower riffs act purely as the wind-up punch for the casual listener, bonus mosh-inciting moment.
Speaking of inciting a mosh - Matt is immediately and relentlessly vocal, commanding and sharp with his grin-sportin’ commands to pit, circle, mosh, shove and generally have a rowdy time. It works - folks kick off in a wide circle-frenzy, blending back into punkier-style shove-fests as the loyal front-rowers cling on for dear head-snapping life.
The dual parrot in the room actually turned to not be a bird at all. Or a plane. Why, it’s a mutant pit-bull brandishing a bass like the frets owe him money! He’s got the bug-eyed gaze of a back-alley junkie! No, it’s bassist and counter-part growler Ross Sewage, complementing the vocal trade-offs and gang-chants-aplenty with a very Trevor Strnad (RIP) screech-bark dynamic timed to the chokes, pulses and blink-if-you-can-catch-em snare-blasts of absolute madman, total machine Mike Hamilton (Drums). Severely underrated, this guys’ literally blur-shaped yet stoically poised, body visible and arms rushing like a human hummingbird.
Sebastian Phillips (Guitars) and Harvey are no noobs, either, endlessly riflinig off constant, swaying motion between tight, punky chord progressions, searing old-school death tremolo, histrionic solos, pinch-harmonics, bends, dives, the full heavy-metal works. That Ross keeps up with all that clatter and attempts even half those goddamn kicks is a feat that makes my out-of-practice bassist hands shudder.
“Melboooooooooooouuuuuuuurrrrrrnnnneeeee!” Harvey drawls in the first pretty goddamn well-Aussie-accented Mel-buhn (not Mel-BORN, but we always give that one a pass/chuckle, depending who) of many tonight. We’re already hooting and shoving and circle-pitting over the brief silence. Acknowledging that without even a shrug, these boys have a LOT of material on offer. So with the ringout of leads and the announcement “This is a new one, this is from our latest record Red Asphalt [hoots and jeering in background] this is the title track!” as he and the band lead the first of so, so many (I’m not even letting autism insist on adding each example, I’ve written too much as is) “Oi! Oi! Oi!” kick-and-lights-driven fist-pumping chants. It’s feeling cosily Acca Dacca and punk-rock, like these dudes just fit in here.
Melodeath-like warbling soaring leads announce the track over the chanting, settling quickly into the thick concrete slam of a very, very mosh-ready bouncin’ old-school riff. Meandering through more of a moderately uptempo pace to keep the pit motion, punctuated by the odd blast, the head-crushing snap from bluesy leads and trills into hyperblasting death-thrash mayhem sees the entire room lose all composure. The pits’ now wall-of-death in circumference, folks lining each other up like the grindcore version of a medieval joust only to be thrown arse-over-tit by another body stumbling backwards. Just an absolute washing-machine. Ross and Matt see the carnage and it’s one of so, so many spinning wrists indicating time has definitely not come just yet to slow the churning of bodies and black shirts.
The indication that “we’re going to step into the past right now and head back to some old shit” is the easiest bait in a fanboys’ playbook of cheer-inciters, and I join a rowdy rabble in raising the roof at the prospect. ‘The Matter of Splatter’ is telling of both the body-strewn circle-pit and the endlessly whirring, headbanging and twirling maniacs raised a couple of feet above us. This classic little number sees the ambient temperature raise even higher, sweat adorning brows as the band effortlessly swing from swing-time grooviness to sheer, mayhemic blastbeating destruction.
A balled-fist “Oi! Oi! Oi!” to the flash of white light sees a choral eruption afterwards, Harvey croons “it’s soooo nice to be back in your little part of the world, Melbourne.” With a devilish curled grin as he knows the response already, he not only enquires if anyone’s heard “a little album we just put out called Red Asphalt - but then again, we do want to take you back to another little record called Gore Metal [omg, omg, please be ‘Necromaniac’].”
YEP. IT’S NECROMANIAC.
(dununu-nuuu, dununu-nuuu, dununu-nuuu “NECROMANIAC!”):
Apple Music, Spotify, Youtube stats and the thundering howls as the punkish intro to this fan-favourite? None of them are liars, and the truth is this song goes one hundred times harder live than on disc. And it’s already a boppy, blasting, furious, groove-filled labyrinth of thrash-metal inflected grindcore fun in the comfort of your own home. Here? As Harvey and Ross trade off an endless screed of call-and-response shrieks and guttural barks, the vocal cadence slams down with the thud of bass-drum and bass guitar alike, the machine-gun fire of the tremolo and snare propelling one heck of a punk-rocking, thrashy, ‘catchy’ grinder. I literally feel some kind of tennis elbow soreness in my flex by the end of the track, and my neck’s certainly worse for wear. One of my Exhumed favourites, it’s one of those funny little extreme-metal moments where you find yourself tearful and choked up in awe of it all.
Speaking of thrash metal - Shovel Headed Killing Machine, anyone? That’s not entirely an unrelated quip, as more recent followup ‘Shovelhead’ has its’ title barked between a cacophonous mess of savage blasting and very Kerry King-esque flat-stick palm-muting propelling alongside that nutcase in the pic above just absolutely decimating the kit. Their whole discography feels purpose-built for inciting floorside mayhem wherever they go, but there’s a certain bipolarity, a contained dysphoria between the chunky, Sepultura styled thrash grooves and sheer white-knuckle blasting moments. The dual-vocal roars (and even triplicate in places) sit astride wailing classic-metal soloing and leads, making the whole thing feel like the most wonderfully extreme punk-metal-death chimera.
Follower ‘Shock Trauma’ has one as Jack’s Complete Lack of Surprise in does-what-it-says-on-the-tin plainness; no hiding behind obtuse metaphors or mythology here - straight medical injury both in lyrics, speed and those unfortunate to trip over (and get picked right back up) in the herd-like circle stampedes that continue unabated.
“You guys having a good time?” asks our Captain Obvious vocalist, and we give an equally well-duh jeer of applause in the ringing feedback. “How were those West Coast boys from Ashen! Let’s give it up for them! This next one’s for those guys and Gutless”. ‘Vacant Grave’ sees us hyperactive zombies dogpiling over one another, completely unlike the stereotype as we pay support-band homage whilst copping headliner brutality. Starting out schizophrenic and clattering in a thunderstorm of blasts, the transition to thick, chunky old-school death metal stomp is seemless, delicious, appetising. Just wonderful, really.
And as frontman to a bunch of dopamine-craving blastbeat addicts, ‘As Hammer To Anvil’ really seals a nail in the coffin for any complacency. Well, to be honest - there really wasn’t any to begin with, things are just getting steamier than the start of ‘Jerry Was A Racecar Driver’ up in here. Fire ‘er up man indeed! This one’s laden with all sort of piercing, tight old-school hi-hat chokes and cymbal flourishes, the uptempo moments in between the WTF-tempo ones too rife with energy and momentum to have many in the room not at least feverishly headbanging in place. I need not point out that the front few rows were like a waving sea of long-haired kelp, but I just did I guess. I’ve seen less consistent head-movement at some of the most headbangable death and thrash, and it’s a joy to see a grindcore band bring such metal spirit along with them (and us).
“So how about we stick with our old shit?” Matt muses to an unsurprisingly hoot-filled, blood-drunk audience. ‘Enucleation’ kicks off with a thick-walled stoic stomper of a riff that feels more martial and imposing than the thrashy riffs prior so far, which only serves to spin us all up that much more when the punk-rock blasting sections bring out butt-shakes and headbangs alike. The uptempo d-beat sections only serve once again to highlight the near-absurdity of what is going elsewhere between fret and kit. Every spare second either guitarist or bassist have away from the mic, they’re either constantly windmilling, headbanging or pumping fists inciting oi-oi-oi’s with a leg up on the foldbacks.
“Casket fucking Crusher!” is announced next, and this ugly bastard of a track is indeed particularly crushing. A delectable little impious number, it’s one of the most ruthless of the set so far (which is no easy call). Riffs cascade and collide via amplifiers as bodies slam together, the whole thing feeling like it’ll aurally, physically rip apart at the seams. Everyone’s going hell-bent for leather in a swarming sea of energy that this far in, feels like it’s never going to abate.
And yea, friends, there’s only so many ways to linguistically twist and turn phrase and pretend you’re being poignant about music so expertly crafted, yet so down-and-dirty in its’ performance and live implementation. I’m not going to drag paragraph by paragraph through the remainder; some small mercy must be shown for your patience thus far. ‘Symphorophilia’ is a paraphilia defined by arousal in watching natural disasters, car crashes and accidents - and that’s reflective of Harvey and Co’s predatory, highly amused grins as we slam into each other in another grinding maelstrom. ‘Playing With Fear’ instead feels oddly two-steppable, or perhaps not so much (I saw that two-stepping, Izzy…) being at Stay Gold - mostly a ‘slow-burner’ until Matt’s call for the circle pit indicates a reinvigoration of flat-stick, head-on speed. ‘The Iron Graveyard’ entombs us in a very metallic mausoleum; dual leads, shredding, blast, thrashy riffs, rockstar posturing, it’s all here and it’s metal-AF.
‘Necrocracy’ is especially rousing, another necrological study in the finer arts of melding breakneck death-thrash with thuggish, brutalising grindcore. “This is our antifascist anthem of sorts” Matt bellows at the outset, requesting we drop the holy Australian c-bomb in response to our thoughts on certain individuals in the news of late. “Netenyahu? (“Cunt!”) Elon Musk? (“Cunt!”), and the best for last - Donald Trump, what a fuckin’ piece of shit that cunt is (“Cuuuunt!”).” Yeah, never said this was a family-friendly podcast or blog. Anyhow, our ‘finale’ sees us taking our mutual frustrations out about the above clowns into a white-hot marathon sprint of even more fevered moshing, a second wind for many folks veritably gasping, hanging on to the foldbacks gulping for breath but savouring every neck-aching headbang.
An encore? Nah, bruh. This is grindcore, and we gotta play a game of equivalence. Thus, the night ends in a mass of sheer fun and mayhemic destruction at the same time - ‘Utter Mutilation of Your Corpse’ drains almost all our remaining life-force, punctuated by the rousing rabble of a grindcore ‘Detroit Rock City’ cover. “This house is full of fucking maniacs - now let’s see you dance!” Matt jeers as we go from bruising one another to brother-in-arms booty shaking like it’s retro night down at your local.
A particularly venemous and energetic last burst occurs with the violent eruption of true last-song announcement, ‘Limb From Limb’. Another fan-fave, this final little excursion into violence extracts pretty much any remaining residual life-force from us, rejuvenating as at the very same time. As the band bow, handshake, get photos and clap along with a brightly-lit room full of cheering maniacs, it really is clear to me now.
There’s so many great international grindcore bands that’ve done the rounds here these past few years. We’ve been treated very nicely on the grind-tour front of late, from Napalm Death, Wormrot and Rotten Sound to numerous other excursions from acts like Viscera Infest and Pig Destroyer. And yet, in honesty I can definitely say Exhumed have nearly all of them blown away for sheer, pure fun-factor - and they certainly stand atop the pile as champions of how best to concoct death-grind and employ that shit in the most metal way possible.
Commiserations are in order if you weren’t able to make it to see Exhumed this trip around. But it’s my hope that my extensive and fairly stock-standard metalhead-intellectual posturing and wordiness at least has some ears twitching amongst the thrashers, death metal fiends and similar. If you want a seriously metal experience in your grind show, and an exceedingly fun time from go to woe, you owe it to yourself to not miss the next run. I sure as hell won’t.
LINKS:
ASHEN (Perth, WA, AUS):
(see for - Socials, Tour Dates, Merch, Lyric/Music Videos, Physical Orders etc)
(see here for Leave The Flesh Behind LP order)
GUTLESS (Melbourne, VIC, AU):
EXHUMED
(Links To: Artist Webstore, Relapse.com Orders, Music Videos, Vinyl Orders - US, Socials Links)
your mate bookings:
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